


A Promise As Fragile As Time

by Paranoixa



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Castiel in the Bunker, Demon Blood Addict Sam Winchester, Demon Blood Addiction, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-19
Updated: 2018-05-19
Packaged: 2019-05-09 02:27:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14707370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paranoixa/pseuds/Paranoixa
Summary: Dean's dead, Sam's back on demon blood, and Cas is overwhelmed; struggling to understand his own grief, he holds Sam as they try to survive death, the one thing capable of destroying a Winchester.. . .And it was tempting; very tempting. Over the millennia, he'd lost many friends, many allies. Losing one of the beings he'd grown to care the most for was cause for much turmoil, and it would have been so easy to allow the inky hands grabbing him to pull him under. In those early days, when Cas and he barely left Sam's bedroom, the temptation was almost too strong. Then Sam, drowning in saltwater and whiskey, would whimper into his chest, and the yearning would fade. Because even though Dean was gone, Sam was still here. A part of himself had been snatched away from him, but the part that existed for Sam lived on. And so did Sam. And for a few months, they were better. They weren't okay (had never really been and, likely, never would be), but they were better.





	A Promise As Fragile As Time

He's drinking again.

Castiel's known for some time now, though it'd taken months of denial on his part and deception on Sam's for Cas to accept it. Even now, after being caught with ruby coated lips late one night, Sam refuses to speak of it. And Castiel hasn't the heart to bring up the matter, so the blood-drinking remains a wanton secret between the two, a pachyderm that stomps through the bunker, disrupting the tenacious relationship that blossomed from a tragedy. With one fateful sip, the precarious foundations keeping the two of them upright had begun to crumble. Lost as he is in the sooty, fog-inducing haze of the blood, Sam doesn't seem to notice the growing chasm between them. But Cas does.

And he doesn't know what to do.

Dean would, an unhelpful voice supplies as he watches Sam stumble into the kitchen one morning. Dean always knew what to do.

The flapjack flipping above the stove crashes against the side of the frying pan; one half of the flapjack splats against the floor, and the other half flops back into the pan. Sam pokes his head over the island; his eyes are immediately drawn to the crescent pancake on the floor before darting up to Castiel.

"I wanted to make you breakfast", Cas offers feebly. The frying pan trembles in his hand, so he sets it down on a stove ring.

"Oh." Sam crosses the room, his fluffy hair bouncing with each step, and retrieves a paper towel from the roll perched on the counter. Scooping the sticky mixture onto the thin paper, he smiles up at Castiel. The expression may have been an attempt to reassure him, but the unsteady look within Sam's eyes combined with the light hint of red tinting his teeth is more unnerving than comforting. Castiel turns to the stove and twists one of the dials. Footsteps slam against the concrete floor behind him; warm hands firmly grip his shoulders, and a chin settles into his head. Castiel closes his eyes and lowers his hand, allowing it to be enveloped by Sam's; he relaxes into the chest behind him. A chilling sensation, like having a bucket of water dumped over his head, washes over him, and Sam squeezes his hand tighter. Cas sighs.

"You're longing", he says.

Sam doesn't say anything. Without turning to face him, Castiel knows his eyes are clenched shut and bleeding red behind his eyelids. And if he takes comfort in knowing the red originates from grief rather than indulgence, then that's just that.

"I miss him, too", Cas admits, listening to the crackling flapjack batter in the frying pan.

Sam presses his chin deeper into Castiel's head. A gasp pierces through his chest, and he snatches his hand away from Castiel's. He's gone within a second, and he stays gone for three days. When he returns, it's with half a face full of stubble and a deep cut adorning his cheek.

Dean would know what to do.

. . .

There was a hunt. Because, of course, there's always a hunt; there's always a hunter, and it's only fitting that the hunter meets their end during a hunt. And Dean was no exception. Given his experience, it was rather naive for Castiel to believe otherwise, but he had.

It'd been eleven months since New Orleans; eleven months since Dean ventured from the group while hunting a rogue angel. He disappeared along a back road, leaving behind only the keys to the Impala. He turned up a few days later in a local newspaper, his eyes blackened to the bone. Castiel remained by Sam's side from retrieving the body to the pyre. The effort was partially for the sake of Sam, who'd remain silent for weeks after finding the paper, but partially for himself as well. Dean was gone, and the light atmosphere he'd meticulously constructed through jokes and boisterous laughter was gone. It was a presence he'd grown to expect, grown to depend on; now that it was gone, it was like the floor had collapsed into a void of nothingness. Almost like the Empty, only so much worse because there was no escaping the darkness now threatening to put him to sleep for eternity.

And it was tempting; very tempting. Over the millennia, he'd lost many friends, many allies. Losing one of the beings he'd grown to care the most for was cause for much turmoil, and it would have been so easy to allow the inky hands grabbing him to pull him under. In those early days, when Cas and he barely left Sam's bedroom, the temptation was almost too strong. Then Sam, drowning in saltwater and whiskey, would whimper into his chest, and the yearning would fade. Because even though Dean was gone, Sam was still here. A part of himself had been snatched away from him, but the part that existed for Sam lived on. And so did Sam. And for a few months, they were better. They weren't okay (had never really been and, likely, never would be), but they were better.

Then the blood was back. Castiel isn't sure when Sam started drinking again. At the time, trembling beneath the force of their grief, he didn't know what to think of Sam's sudden irritability. He merely attributed it to the mourning process. And if he was mourning, then Cas was to comfort him. So he did. He held him, rubbing calming palms over the goose bumps on Sam's arms, and hummed songs to him until he fell asleep

There later came suspicion when he started sneaking out at night (and sometimes during the day). Cas will never tell him about the time he followed him on one of these "snack runs". He'll never tell Sam how he watched him slit a demon's throat and tackle him like a starved lioness. He'll never tell him of the profound fear he felt at the manic laugh that ruptured through Sam's chest, a trail of blood dripping from his lips. He'll never tell him, but Castiel knows. And, beneath the haze, Cas supposes Sam knows, too.

Five months have passed after his discovery when he finally confronts him. They're lying in bed post frenzied sex when Castiel brings it up. His arms lock tight around Sam upon his attempt to scramble away. Eyes flashing a despondent blue, he presses a hopeful kiss to the back of Sam's neck. "Sam, please."  
"Just shut the fuck up. We are not talking about this."  
"But I-I think we should." Sam turns to glare, and Cas falters in his words before continuing. "You're hurting, Sam. Let me help you."

"I don't want your help", Sam hisses. His lower lip trembles, and his struggling ceases, instead choosing to shakily grasp Castiel's shoulders. "I want Dee."  
Cas loosens his hold as Sam tightens his, and he hooks his legs around Sam's waist. Sam rests in his arms, smelling of dopamine and hate and nostalgia. It's a horrid smell, but he stays close regardless. Because it's Sam, and he'll never pull away from Sam.

"Thirty fucking years", Sam is saying through painful hiccups. "Thirty fucking years of hunting and it's an angel that punches his ticket?"  
Castiel flinches.

"He was supposed to live, Cas. He was supposed to get a beer belly the size of a small truck, settle down with someone, and die on the fucking toilet. He wasn't-he wasn't." Sam punches him in the chest. As a celestial being, the attack has no impact, on his body, but it draws a wince from him nonetheless. "It wasn't supposed to be like this."  
"I know."  
"It should have been someone else. It should have been anyone else."  
"Sam-"  
"He gave everything for this life", Sam shouts. He rolls off the bed and stomps on wobbly legs toward the door. Turning back to face him, he takes hold of his hair and squeezes. "Even when he didn't want to, he gave it. And he never got anything back."  
Castiel rushes after him and follows as Sam storms through the corridors. If the heavy set of his brows and gritted teeth are any indication, he doesn't recognize his surroundings and is struggling to navigate the intricate maze of rooms. When he finally stops, legs giving out beneath him, he screams and drops his head to the floor.

Cas crouches beside him; he rests his fingers against his knees and watches. It's hard, watching someone he loves fall apart while he himself is barely holding it together. But what else is there to do?

"I think of him a lot", Castiel murmurs. Sam doesn't move. "And at the oddest times, too. Like when I'm purchasing a bag of McDonald's; there's always pie, the apple kind, and burgers. You know how he loved those." Castiel stretches a hand over Sam and nods. "It's hard not to miss him; everything I hear, see, and do reminds me of him. I suppose that's odd."  
Sam sniffles. He lifts his head and stares. His chest filling with air and confidence, Castiel wiggles a finger between Sam's and says, "It's hard to be okay". Then, taking both of Sam's hands into his, he stresses, "And that's okay."  
Sam smiles. He stares down at their hands, at the droplets of water splashing against the back of his own. "How is it that you're better at being human than me?"  
Castiel frowns. He thinks of the ever-present sensation of his chest shattering and collapsing in on itself. Death is a part of life, human life in particular. For a being that's seen, and experienced, death so many times, it's strange that he can never seem to release the pain of each death. Supposedly, it's a skill that all humans possess, even if they are incapable of utilizing it.

"I don't feel very human", he eventually says.

"Mm. Me neither." Sam wipes a hand under his nose. It comes away covered in a concoction of tears and mucus, but it doesn't deter Cas from settling his hand over it once more. Sam laughs. It's more of an amused, frantic gasp of air, but, underneath, it's still a laugh. "That's gross."  
Castiel smirks. "Says the man with a patch of drying semen on his abdomen."  
Rolling his eyes, he uses his free hand to scratch his stomach, then stands. Cas follows in suit; his eyes are wide and hopeful as he closes the distance between them and tosses himself into Sam's arms. Sam wraps them around Castiel's waist, his movements uncertain and cautious. When Cas at last rests his head against his collarbone, Sam sighs and drags his tongue over his teeth.

"You don't need it", Castiel whispers into Sam's skin. He gathers a wad of hair into his hands.

"But I want it. Damn it, Cas, I just wanna have something without having it stolen from me."  
"If you don't stop, it's going to steal everything you still have."

"..."

"Promise me you'll stop." He pulls away and glances up, his gaze unwavering even when Sam finally meets his eye. "Dean wouldn't want this."

"Dean's dead."  
"And you know him; he's currently in Heaven, praying for your well-being. Hey." His hand drifts to the back of Sam's head. Cas stares with soft eyes, conveying in them what his words cannot. "He would not want this."  
Sam grabs Cas by the chin. His other hand snakes around to rub small circles into Castiel's spine. Sam's heart beats rapidly in his chest, like the panic-inducing shouts of a fire alarm. "God, what must he be thinking of me?"  
Cas lifts his hands to cradle Sam's face, brushing two fingers over tear-stained cheeks; his lips form a downcast smile. "He's probably thinking of a way to save you. And wondering when." He gestures between them. "This happened."  
"God, we've scarred him for all eternity, haven't we?"  
It's meant to be a joke, but Castiel recognizes it for what it is: a desperate reassurance of Dean's well-being; a despairing, last-ditch effort of hope that, regardless of what they know to be true, Dean's still watching over them. And perhaps, it's a bit unfair to enable Sam's denial. Perhaps, in the long run, it will do more harm than good to Sam's psyche. But Sam, so full of sorrow and remorse, awakens a primal need in Castile to keep him alive, to keep him safe, and to make him smile, really smile, just one more time. Castiel's grace jerks at the thought as he realizes just how difficult and long-lasting a mission like that would be. He frowns, holds Sam tighter, and closes his eyes, determined to make Sam Winchester feel something other than such deep-rooted sadness. Then he realizes that this was Dean's mission for the better part of thirty years, and his grace plummets to his stomach.

How strange it is to understand a person more in death than in life.

"Definitely", Cas agrees. Then, lowering a finger to scrape away a patch of snot, he looks back up at Sam. "Promise me. No more demon blood."  
Sam looks away. But he nods. And he promises. And he leads them back to bed, and they don't discuss it until Sam inevitably breaks his promise two days later.


End file.
